Jerome drives casually down the country roads close to the stables, singing along with the old country music from the 50s and 60s that’s playing on the radio. I smile, watching and listening to him. Who knew that a guy trying to work his way up in a mafia family could sing so well.
And knew so much Patsy Cline.
I shrug, looking out the window, enjoying the view when suddenly Jerome slams on the breaks.
“s**t,” he mutters as our car skids to a stop, beginning to fishtail a little.
I gasp, grabbing on to the handle above my head and the center console to hold myself steady. My vision, of course, snaps directly to the road, anxious to see what the hell is in our way.
My eyes go wide with shock when I see it.
A bright red Ferrari, situated sideways in the middle of the road, blocking a
